


Masquerade

by dayari



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed Kink Meme, Awkwardness, Courtesans, Flirting, Guards, M/M, Mistaken Identity, POV Minor Character, Societal Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayari/pseuds/dayari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezio finds out that hiding amongst a group of courtesans on a hot market day in Roma can yield unexpectedly complicated results.</p>
<p>[Written for <a href="http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=8414795#cmt8414795">this prompt</a> at the AC kink meme.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=8414795#cmt8414795) at [](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/)**asscreedkinkmeme** , in which Ezio hides from the guards amidst a group of courtesans, and actually gets mistaken for a male courtesan by one of the guards who are looking for him. I tried to follow the prompt to the letter, but the final bonus points just didn't happen, sorry about that—I guess my guard ended up being too slow on the uptake!
> 
> A few more things:  
> • It's probably pretty obvious that I don't speak Italian, especially from the _"ser cortigiano";_ I google-translated "courtesan" and ended it in -o instead of -a, hoping that it'd seem like a male version. And I used the Italian names of the cities (Roma, Venezia) because they also do that in the games.  
>  • I know that Leonardo did not actually _make_ Ezio's hidden blade—at least not the first one—but I doubt Ezio would tell a random guard about his father's heirloom, so I made him lie a little bit.  
>  • About the "societal homophobia" tag: don't worry, it's not that overt, just the guard thinking about it a couple of times.  
> • Without pen_rabbit, viennajones, blood-songs, and kura_tan, this fic would probably still be unfinished and collecting dust on my harddrive. Thank you guys so, so much for all your encouragement!! ♥
> 
> That said, writing this was _so much fun_ and I cackled pretty much all the way through. :D I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> First ever AC fic, pleasedon'tkillme. *dives into haystack*
> 
>  
> 
> **ETA:** A translation of this work into Korean is now available, done by the wonderful, amazing [bearygirl](http://bearygirl.livejournal.com/): [part 1](http://blog.naver.com/yuffie510/60171626228) & [part 2](http://blog.naver.com/yuffie510/60172939719)! I still can't believe this happened--thank you _so much_ for devoting such an amount of time and effort to my fic!! ♥♥

It was the mission of a lifetime, they'd said. To turn your back to the crowd or even look away at the wrong moment would invite a swift death, they'd said. Failed attempts to pick up the _assassino's_ trail had decimated countless battalions of soldiers, they'd said. Dangerous to the point of suicidal, the mission was the reason why a handful of the Borgia's best warriors had been called away from their grueling training schedules to assist the city guard. 

Their officers had poured all of their efforts into discovering the assassin's whereabouts, and a string of bribed merchants had finally paid off. Rumor had it that the white-clad murderer was slinking about in the district right now, and the city guards' frazzled nerves were turned into volatile tempers by the ever-present threat of a speedy, bloody demise when they least expected it.

Loitering in the welcome, leafy shade of a tree amidst the hustle and bustle of a market day in Roma, papal guard Filippo de' Rossi was bored out of his skull.

He had been standing in the same alley for over five minutes, and he knew he was supposed to complete the second round of his assigned patrol. But the day was positively sweltering, the very air flickering above the heated pavement, and he found himself unwilling to leave the slightly cooler air under the tree's canopy of leaves.

Cesare Borgia would have had his head on a pike if he'd seen one of his ruthless, deadly elite guards all but swooning in the shade, defeated not by the legendary criminal they'd been sent to kill, but by an Italian summer day. But then again, Cesare Borgia was not here. And Filippo doubted that his comrades would rat him out later, since he'd seen two of them dunk their heads into a murky fountain to cool down.

The cobblestone was so hot that he could feel it even through the thick soles of his boots.  
He was sweating like a horse beneath his armor, had in fact already taken off his helmet to cool down despite the violent hand gestures from one of the patrolling archers. _Do you_ want _the assassin's blade to slit your throat?!_ , the archer's furious expression had said. Filippo had just glared back up at him, silently communicating, _if I die of heat stroke before we've even tracked him down, the man will find himself out of a job._

A slight breeze drifted through the alley, and he gratefully turned his face into the wind. Under the heavily padded armor, his clothes were stuck to his skin, tacky and stiff with sweat; but as uncomfortable as it was, the dampness actually brought some relief. Currents of air were sneaking past the metal plates and joints of his armor, thin streaks of coolness that lingered on his sweaty skin.

The same archer who had protested the removal of his helmet reappeared on the roof and glared down at him. Filippo sighed, but stepped obediently out of the shadows, wincing when the sunlight enveloped him in a wave of hot, dry air. 

His spot of shade had been right next to the rickety shelves of a vendor selling pottery, and the man's yelled expansive praise of his own work had already given him a headache. It only intensified when he walked into the square and found himself instantly engulfed by a horde of chattering middle-aged women. 

He tried to sidestep a fair-skinned lady with laugh lines around her eyes, and was pushed to the middle of the group when she reached around him to take her friend's hand and point at a perfume-selling vendor. The movement tugged her right into Filippo's path, and he nearly stumbled in his haste to get his heavy boots away from her finely-woven leather sandals.

Not daring to move much so as not to bump the hard edges of his armor into delicate elbows, he had no choice but to let the group propel him. Gazing down at them from his superior height, Filippo spared a second to wonder how they weren't dying of a combination of asphyxiation and heat stroke in their tightly-laced corsets. But none of them seemed to feel the blazing sunlight very much. They were excited and perky, tugging each other this way and that, tinkling laughter occasionally interrupting the steady stream of chatter.

The scent of the perfume vendor's stall made him gag a little, but he finally managed to slip out of the cluster of women as they went to inspect the expensive glass bottles. He dove for the next opening amidst a gaggle of elderly men, and inhaled gratefully when the flowery smell drifted away.

Carefully, Filippo looked around to check if anyone had seen the brief detour that the ladies had taken him on. But the only other guards he could see were two archers on a roof on the far side of the square, seeming to sway a little in the stifling heat. 

Bringing up a hand to wipe at the beads of moisture on his hairline, Filippo released a weary breath and reminded himself to thank God for small favors. If any of his fellow papal guards had seen that, he would've been in for yet another few days of relentless teasing. It was a running joke in his battalion that in spite of his high salary, not too repulsive looks, and generally unobjectionable nature, Filippo was passing right through middle age without being married. It had gotten to the point that any and all of his encounters with women, however brief, set off a new round of heckling, salty jokes, and raucous laughter when the wine was flowing in the barracks.

Well, he _could_ have thought of several things to say to silence his fellow guards—such as the fact that while he occasionally enjoyed a woman's conversation and wit, his carnal preferences lay the other way entirely. But such was the kind of talk that could get one clapped in irons and taken to court, and generally, Filippo had found it safer to endure the teasing and keep his mouth shut.

He moved slowly with the crowd, unwilling to shove through the throngs of people the way he'd seen some of the city guards do. The dark, ornately decorated shimmer of his armor already made some of the citizens shrink back from the height and bulk of him, instinctively threatened by someone who so obviously outmatched them in strength and rank. He didn't want to alarm them further by brutally pushing them aside just because they were in his way.

Fine silks were being advertized loudly to his left, flanked by an elderly woman who promised palm-readings, and a well-stocked seller of writing materials. A flock of serious-faced young men was pulling out their purses around the stacks of parchment and dyed quills. Filippo smiled absently, wondering how many love letters would be written on these wares before sundown.

The breeze picked up again as he slowly circled the square, stirring the overheated air and cooling the sweat on his neck into a welcome patch of damp coldness. When he passed the street where his assigned patrol was supposed to take him next, the buttery scent of sweet pastries drifted his way on the wind. He paused, hesitated, and, upon seeing no other guards in the perimeter, strode past the shady alley, deeper into the cheerful disarray of citizens, wares, and colorfully decorated stalls.

The detour to the little bakery at the corner was only brief, after all. He could still see the street as he waited in a short line for his turn to purchase a sweet treat. His vision still unimpeded by the helmet he'd taken off, Filippo spared a moment to relish in the small, rebellious spark that his divergence had kindled to life. 

Under Cesare Borgia's brutal training regimen, even a single step away from where he was supposed to be would have been unthinkable. Here, it seemed not so outrageous to simply stop and let his gaze wander over the crowd, and allow his mouth to water at the scent of burned sugar and soft, baked fruit.

If not for his gloves, the cloth-covered pastry would have burned his hands; as it was, he still felt its freshly baked heat through the thick leather. After a visible double-take at the sight of a papal guard in the market square, the baker had hurried to fetch him the largest pastry from his wooden shelves when Filippo expressed a preference for the apple-filled ones.

The man watched anxiously as Filippo took the baked treat, then burst into a flurry of movement, rummaging briefly under the counter. His eyes were slightly wide and wary when he gave Filippo an extra rough-woven cloth to wrap the pastry in. "Wouldn't want you to stain your gloves, _messere_ ," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste to cover the golden-brown dough.

Feeling somewhat unwieldy and out of place in the face of the man's nervousness, Filippo pressed a few more coins than necessary into the baker's hand. He attempted a reassuring smile, and when that didn't chase the apprehension from the man's demeanor, simply thanked him for the food and beat a discrete retreat.

He found a relatively quiet corner between another tree and a small cluster of stalls that advertized riding gear. The earthy scent of polished leather mingled with the sweetness of the pastry, and Filippo slowly unwrapped the top layer of cloth on his baked treat, leaning back against the tree. In the shade, his armor didn't draw so many glances, and the laughing, chattering, endlessly moving crowd was soothing to watch from a slight distance. There was no sign of unrest in the throngs of people, no commotion anywhere that might have pointed out their target. It seemed that not even the _assassino_ was mad enough to be out and about in this infernal heat.

Removing his heavy gloves to get a better grip on the pastry was a relief, and without the thick leather in the way, the final layer of cloth came away easily. Steam rose from the bit of apple filling that peeked out between folds of crumbly golden dough at the top. He folded the cloth around his hand to avoid getting hot butter on his fingers. But then Filippo nearly dropped the pastry when two couples walked past, close enough to almost bump into him, squeezing themselves in between his tree and a horde of gangly-limbed boys.

The women were glaring in a way that made Filippo suspect that they had spotted a gaggle of courtesans in one of their customary spots on the margins of the square. Their spouses let themselves be hurried along, even though they still sneaked surreptitious glances over their shoulders. 

Smiling wryly to himself at the display, Filippo followed their gazes to the sandstone wall of a stately old inn, spotting the group of women right away. They were smiling at the passing citizens, fluttering their eyelashes and waving suggestively to whoever rested their eyes on them for more than a second. Their colorful, scanty dresses stood out in the crowd, and Filippo thought idly that they, at least, would not collapse from the heat today—which was reassuring to know, since they would most likely be out and looking for customers until way past sundown.

It took him a second to see the flash of leather and gleaming steel in their midst, make out the taller stature of a man beneath white and red clothing, and catch a glimpse of a dark beard from underneath a large hood.

Filippo blinked, pausing in the act of blowing on his pastry to cool it down. He stared at the courtesans for a moment, but the tableau didn't change; the man didn't move away from the middle of the group, or stop to speak to whichever one of the women had taken his fancy. He was standing almost entirely still, turning ever so slightly once in a while, his head moving nearly imperceptibly beneath the hood. The man's eyes were hidden, but his posture was alert, his back straight. This didn't look like the unfocused regard of someone staring off into the distance in boredom. He was surveying the swarm of people, Filippo realized, probably searching for an acquaintance he'd lost in the crowd.

Or perhaps, he thought, his mind all but stumbling over itself as the pieces slid together to form a complete picture—perhaps he was looking for _customers._

The thought seemed so ridiculous that it was all Filippo could do to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at himself. He had worked in Roma all his life, first as a mere foot soldier who had then been whisked away for decades of training to become one of the Borgia's most finely-honed weapons. He was so used to the courtesans that he didn't even really notice them anymore, even beyond their lack of appeal to him; they just blended into the background of the city, much like the thieves and beggars. And among all the groups of courtesans he had walked past in his life, he had never seen a _man_ offering his services.

Filippo let his gaze rest on the man for a while, watching the way he just stood there, frozen to the spot and obviously uncomfortable. There was really no way to misinterpret his presence. None of the courtesans was openly paying attention to him, so he couldn't be a customer himself. In fact, they seemed to be sheltering him, positioned around the man to hide him from the passing crowd's idle glances.

And judging from what little Filippo could see of him, the man was dressed in robes meant to imitate a Florentine nobleman's finery, bleached a blinding white that contrasted sharply with the courtesans' blue, red, and green dresses. He had to be new to the job, clad in extravagant clothes to attract attention while he was still learning to use his charm like the other courtesans did.

Shaking his head at the display, Filippo took in the man's straight-backed posture, the minute, nervous shuffle of his booted feet. He _had_ heard that the Rosa in Fiore had become much more... _accepting_ lately, taking in anyone who wanted to work there, regardless of their background. Still, he never would have guessed that even those most liberal courtesans would take a _man_ into their midst.

The weightless, loosening sensation in his chest took him by surprise, and it was a few long seconds before Filippo could puzzle it out as a strange, sweeping tide of relief.

It wasn't as if he had never heard of men like him before, who preferred hard muscle to supple curves and the scrape of stubble to painted lips. If he had never met others with similar tastes, he'd probably never have discerned that that was what he was looking for. But it was something else entirely to see a male courtesan openly advertizing his services, without fear of the consequences, should the guards spot him. The man seemed slightly nervous—not afraid, merely uneasy. There was no sign of the defensive skittishness of some of the courtesans in the poorer districts, and Filippo decided that he didn't look like someone who'd been forced to stand there. He was probably just inexperienced.

Another thought occurred to him, with a jarring shock that pulled the vague, niggling memory of his assigned patrol and the assassin right out of his mind. Maybe he could— maybe it wouldn't be wrong to just go and talk to the courtesan. Maybe Filippo could alleviate his nervousness a bit, and make sure—at least for a few minutes—that he didn't catch the attention of the city's leering, cold-eyed noblemen.

Filippo glanced up and around, craning his neck to glance back at where he'd seen the two archers earlier. The rooftops shimmered in the heat, as if the very air wanted to find a shadowed place to escape the sun. But there was no sign of the archers; either they had gone on to make the rounds of the square, or they'd collapsed from heat stroke and fallen off the other side of the roof. 

He shrunk back into the shadow cast by the tree, shuffled the still-hot pastry into his left hand, and jerked hurried fingers through his dark hair. It didn't feel greasy yet, he'd bathed only yesterday, but all of a sudden, he was still acutely aware of his receding hairline, the barest hints of gray beginning to lighten his temples. He probably looked terribly overheated and awkward in his clunky armor, far removed from a nobleman's colorful finery or even the younger foot soldiers' sleek uniforms.

But it was all he had for now, and somehow, he didn't think that the man was going to be picky about who talked to him, so long as the words were reassuring and perhaps accompanied by a friendly smile.

Cesare Borgia would probably have dismembered him with his own two hands if he'd seen Filippo abandon his patrol to approach a courtesan—a _male_ courtesan, at that. But Cesare Borgia was not here, and Filippo took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and broke cover from beneath the tree.

He didn't see the smiles freezing on the courtesans' faces as he approached, and nor did he notice the sudden motionlessness of the entire group, startled into a helpless moment of stillness. There was a gap in the endless string of people, and Filippo squeezed through it quickly, for once not stumbling as he stepped to the side to avoid stomping on delicate ladies' feet. The sun felt like a brand on his head, heat creeping down his neck now that he was out of the tree's welcome shade. 

The cloth-covered pastry was hot and slippery in his hand, but it still smelled enticingly of apples, the scent steaming out from the top of the buttery, golden-brown crust. He only hoped it would look inviting to the courtesan as well. Filippo stopped in front of the group, not as close as any other customer might have stood—he didn't want to loom over them any more than his considerable height forced him to. Sternly reminding himself that turning tail and running would make him look utterly foolish, Filippo held out the pastry.

" _Buongiorno_ ," he said, and hid a cringe at how loud his voice sounded. He glanced around, but no one was paying attention to the gaggle of courtesans. Catching the hooded man's startled gaze with his own, he attempted an inviting smile, rusty and unused on his face, but genuine. "Would the young _ser cortigiano_ like to share this with me?"

A ringing silence fell, as quickly as if Filippo had uttered oaths at the group. They all stared at him, incredulity and distrust writ large across their faces. The man's mouth had actually fallen open in disbelief. Up close, he didn't look as young as he had from afar, a dark, well-groomed beard framing his mouth and his jawline, only interrupted by a thin white scar that slashed through his lips.

Filippo cursed his armor for the umpteenth time—it had given the baker a fright, and of course it was now intimidating the courtesans as well. Maybe he should have slunk away into a deserted alley to take it off, but then again, the thin clothes he wore underneath were rumpled and sweat-damp, not at all the kind of attire he wanted to wear in public.

Or maybe he just should have quelled the harebrained idea of talking to the courtesan when it had first sprung up in his mind. 

He felt the smile freeze and fall, an oddly intense disappointment plummeting in his stomach. But before he could draw back, the courtesan stepped forward, gently pushing aside the short girl that had put herself between them. Almost entirely hidden by the hood, Filippo still saw his eyes dart around quickly, probably looking for other guards and relaxing only the slightest bit when he found none.

"Of course," the man said—too quickly, the words blurted out on a snap decision. The fight-or-flight tension vanished from his posture, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to infuse his step with some swagger as he came forward. "It would be... my pleasure."

" _No_ ," the short girl whispered, dismayed. She tried to catch the man's eye and put a restraining hand on his arm, her expression begging him to reconsider. Filippo frowned—it wasn't like he was going to drag the courtesan off into a dark alley and have his way with him. He just wanted to chat and share his pastry, talk to a like-minded person and perhaps make this first day on the job a little less daunting for him. 

The outright panic in the girl's eyes made Filippo shift uncomfortably, but the man just tossed a quick, roguish grin at her. "I am sure it will be fine," he said, gently brushed off her hand, and twisted out of the tightly-knotted group with sinuous grace.

In the same movement, the courtesan wormed an arm around Filippo's, turning him around with no apparent effort. Through his armor, Filippo felt only the vaguest tug around his elbow, but he let himself follow the courtesan's lead away from the others. A few steps took them into the narrowing mouth of a winding street—out of the way of the thickest throngs of people, he realized, and followed with new understanding and only a small measure of trepidation.

Away from the bustling crowd, the courtesan looked a little hunted, caught wrong-footed by the sudden narrowed intensity of being alone with Filippo. His gaze flickered upward again, skimming over the rooftops and probing the deep shadows between the buildings. Nobody jumped out at them and started shouting about sodomy, but he didn't seem reassured. Filippo watched, confused, as the man shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and turned in a slow half-circle, his narrow-eyed scrutiny of the street only just visible beneath the hood. For all his earlier bravado as he'd reassured the short courtesan, he now seemed as alert as if he was expecting an ambush.

The thought made something click in Filippo's head, and he suddenly realized that the man's wary stance was that of a soldier. His coiled tension was mostly hidden beneath the rich folds of his robes, but Filippo still saw the broadening of his stance, ready to attack or flee as the situation called for. Perhaps he had used to be a guard then, discharged after an injury or for insubordination. It was understandable that he'd be wary of a fellow soldier approaching him. Maybe he even thought Filippo had recognized him and would rat him out to the authorities. 

"There is no need to be nervous," he blurted without thinking, because that was just _wrong_. Even if Filippo really had recognized the man, he would never have dragged him off just to give him a lecture and call for a group of the overworked city guard to take him away in chains on charges of illicit practices. He'd wanted to _reassure_ him, but it seemed he was doing anything but.

"Nervous," the man repeated flatly, stilling at once and staring at Filippo as if seeing him clearly for the first time. His eyes were dark, shadowed by the hood, surprise and suspicion warring for dominance on his tanned features. "That's— I am not _nervous_."

He sounded offended, Filippo realized with a wince, exasperated at himself. First he did not know what to say, and then he committed such a blunder—had the mere sight of a handsome face stripped away his years until he behaved like a blushing boy again? "Of course not," he hurried to say. "The first day on the job would make anyone jumpy."

"What job— oh," the man said, and sudden understanding stole the challenging gleam from his gaze. For a moment he seemed to be thinking quickly, possible answers racing past too fast to follow behind his eyes. But then he relaxed, like Filippo's clumsy attempts to put him at ease had finally taken hold. "The first day. Yes, of course. This is very... unusual." 

His lips twitched in private amusement, and although the joke was not for him, Filippo gratefully smiled back. "Unusual, yes," he agreed, glancing back over his shoulder in the general direction of the other courtesans, hidden from sight by the market day crowd. "I never expected to find a male courtesan here, or at least not quite so... out in the open."

The man shrugged, his stance shifting and relaxing, easing into the conversation like an actor who'd suddenly remembered his lines. "I got lucky," he said. "The Rosa in Fiore is very accommodating towards whoever is looking for work these days, even men." The wry smile grew, and suddenly he looked younger again, a spark of mischief peeling away the wary shadow in his eyes. "And you know what they say about hiding in plain sight."

Filippo found himself grinning at the unexpected levity. The man seemed to have shrugged off the nervousness like an ill-fitting cloak, and it helped Filippo relax too, put at ease by the man's easy humor. "My name is Filippo," he said, and sketched a little bow at the man, keeping a careful eye on the apple pastry to keep it from overbalancing. "What may I call you?"

"E... duardo," the courtesan replied—quickly enough, but with that tell-tale little pause in the middle, and Filippo hid a knowing smile. He hadn't thought he would be given the man's real name, but neither had he expected that little slip. The courtesan looked startled by his own near-blunder for a moment, but rallied quickly, giving Filippo an enigmatic little smile.

"Well, now we know each other," Eduardo said. He stepped to the side and held out an arm in invitation—he wore bracers, Filippo noticed, carved with intricate designs, the metal scratched and scuffed with use. His employers had really put an effort into making his vaguely warrior-like garb look realistic. "Shall we walk a bit?"

Walking meant that he would work up a sweat again—not that he didn't already stink of salt and overheated metal—but Filippo nodded readily. It was awkward to just stand around and talk, especially since casual conversation with a courtesan was apparently not his strong suit. "Of course," he said, and fell in step beside the shorter man.

The alley meandered between tall, slightly run-down buildings, with faded tapestries dangling from the balconies and the sandstone walls crumbling in places. It wasn't a part of town that Filippo had ever really stopped to look at before; he'd only ever passed through it on the way to or from the barracks. He had heard that the nearby Borgia tower had been burned down recently, but instead of the chaos and poverty one might have expected to see, the houses had the aged, chipped look of careful maintenance in spite of a lack of money. 

"So, Eduardo," Filippo said eventually, glancing down at the white cowl beside him. It was odd not to see the man's face when talking to him, but if Eduardo was really an ex-soldier, Filippo understood that he felt less easily recognizable beneath the hood. "What brought you into this line of work, if I may ask?"

"Oh, this and that," Eduardo replied with a careless gesture. The hood tilted slightly towards Filippo—he was still peering between the buildings for potential threats, but not as warily as before. "Living in Roma is expensive, and I found my funds lacking. It is fortunate that I know the owner of the Rosa in Fiore. She was most... _amused_... when I asked to work for her."

Filippo did realize he was being redirected, but there was no wary tension in Eduardo's voice, nothing to point towards carefully hidden truths. So he had not been forced to don his extravagant clothes after all. The wash of relief surprised him, loosened the last bit of nagging, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Eduardo didn't seem like the type of man to let himself get blackmailed and bullied into selling his assets on the streets, but it was still reassuring to know that he was indeed here of his own free will.

"What about you, then?" Eduardo asked, tilting his head back so the hood slipped enough to reveal his eyes and the ends of a dark fringe, slightly matted with sweat. "What brings you here? Your armor does not look like that of an ordinary foot soldier."

"I'm a papal guard," Filippo explained. "We do not usually patrol the streets, but Ces— I mean, my employer saw fit to dispatch a greater number of men today. He hopes to catch the _assassino_ , you see."

He saw the dark brows raise from the corner of his eye. "An assassin, here in Roma?" Eduardo inquired. Filippo glanced down at him, but he didn't look worried, just intrigued.

"Rumor has it he's been bothering the city guard for a while," he replied, and quirked a smile at his own words. "Or playing with them, more like, as a cat does with a mouse."

Eduardo's scarred lips twitched, but he mostly managed to stifle the wide, amused grin. There was something else in his features, a certain knowing glint in his eyes that Filippo couldn't quite place. "You seem to approve."

Filippo gestured dismissively, the plates of his armor grating against each other with the motion. A part of him was distantly surprised at his own easy words, well aware that Cesare Borgia would have put him on latrine duty on the spot if he had heard him just then. "I appreciate good workmanship when I see it. And from what I've heard, he never kills civilians. A warrior, then, with a notion of honor, no matter what my superiors would have me believe."

"Mmm," Eduardo hummed noncommittally, and looked back at the street ahead of them. The cobblestone was uneven and cracked in places, but the pavement looked freshly-swept, and there were no traces of hay or horse manure caught between the stones. The paint was peeling off of the shutters at many buildings, but the windowpanes were clean and gleamed in the sunlight. 

Filippo nodded to himself, oddly gratified that the area seemed to be faring just fine even without countless guards on patrol around the Borgia tower. This time, the thought was not even accompanied by a twinge of guilt, and he couldn't suppress a quick smile. Far away from the barracks and the grueling drills, it seemed safe to articulate such sentiments in the privacy of his own mind.

The street opened up into a smaller tree-lined square, thankfully devoid of market stalls and overeager vendors yelling advertisements into the hot summer air. A small fountain was trickling water into a low, wide basin in the middle, and Filippo found himself drifting towards the sound on instinct. He wasn't going to dunk in his head like he'd seen some other guards to—his hair was in sweaty disarray already, and though Eduardo didn't seem put off by his disheveled appearance, he didn't want to make matters worse.

They circled the fountain at a leisure pace. Here, his armor did not draw so many startled glances; away from the excited thrum of the market, the summer day felt not so fast-paced, more languid as everyone avoided moving around too much in the heat. Small groups of neighbors were clustered around the doorsteps of the houses, leaning on their brooms and chatting amiably, with small piles of neatly swept-up dust and gravel at their feet.

"A good day for a hunt," Eduardo observed, tilting his head back to glance up at the sun. The hood slipped, exposing a little of his glossy dark hair and the unruly fringe that was stuck slightly to his temples with sweat. Filippo was struck with the sudden urge to ask him to take off the hood altogether, and bit the words back just in time.

"Hunt?" he repeated instead, caught off-balance by the strange impulse. God, he had not been rendered this slow and inarticulate by another man since his days as a coltish youth working on his father's farm. He gave his thoughts a good mental shake, telling them sternly that they had missed their appropriate time by about twenty years.

The hint of a smile on Eduardo's face grew wider, as if he knew exactly what was going through Filippo's head. "I thought you were chasing the _assassino?_ "

"Oh, of course." Filippo moved his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. The leather straps under his armor chafed against his sweat-damp clothes, and he grimaced a little at the discomfort. "Well, I suppose it is a good day for _him_. He is not roasting under several layers of padding and metal."

Eduardo laughed, low and pleased. "You do not seem too bothered," he observed, and let his gaze travel slowly over Filippo's face as if hoping to catch him in the act of lying. "I wouldn't have expected a papal guard to be quite so laid back about the spread of disorder and chaos in his city."

Something about the way he said it seemed off, and Filippo frowned, a recumbent part of his mind suddenly jarred back to awareness. He probably should have told a bloodthirsty tale of what they would do to the assassin if they caught him—after all, that seemed like the thing a papal guard would say.

But if Eduardo found fault with his words, the damage was already done, and Filippo heard himself continue almost against his will. "That is not what I see here," he stated, gesturing with his free hand at the shabby but well-kept houses, the flowers that wilted slightly in the heat on sun-bleached windowsills. He paused, unsure about how much to reveal—he wanted to tell Eduardo that he'd noticed how the citizens didn't seem to miss the Borgia tower much, and how no one seemed too worried about a murderer in their midst. 

But then he reminded himself that he did not know Eduardo after all. He had no idea what kind of background the man came from, who he answered to, with whom he might share the story of his encounter with Filippo over a glass of wine tonight. So in the end he just said, "I see people who are content and feel no fear walking the streets."

That gave Eduardo pause, visibly halted his thoughts. Filippo found himself subjected to narrow-eyed contemplation, and it was as if Eduardo's dark gaze was trying to pierce through his words, to nudge and prod at them until they gave up the truth in the tone of his voice. It was not the kind of reaction he had expected. He had thought it would make the man uneasy to hear a papal guard, one who was supposed to be a steadfast protector, talk with such casual unconcern about the white-clad hunter that prowled the streets.

"Very well," Eduardo said abruptly, and the sharp, predatory focus vanished from his eyes. Filippo got the distinct feeling that he had just passed a test of some sort, that he'd been assessed and not found wanting, and maybe even worthy of respect.

Such appraising scrutiny by a mere courtesan seemed strange, but then Eduardo smiled at him, inviting and warm, and the thought drifted to the back of Filippo's mind. He tilted his head to indicate the pastry that Filippo was still holding, still smelling of apples but not steaming any longer. "You said you wanted to share this?"

It took a moment to quiet down the faraway niggling of his instincts telling him that he had just missed something important, and another to figure out the logistics. They clumsily shuffled the pastry between themselves—at first Eduardo made to tear it in half, and Filippo only just managed to stop him, not wanting the apple filling to spill out. Then Filippo tried to break a piece off the top, but the dough was so buttery that it crumbled between his fingers and left his hands even greasier. 

He chuckled awkwardly as the crumbs trickled down onto the pavement. He could feel his face getting hotter, and not just because of the sun that peeked lazily through the gently swaying treetops. As if it hadn't been enough that his brain was somehow incapacitated by the courtesan and the heat, of course his fine motor functions were escaping him as well. But Eduardo only gave him a wry grin at their joined failed efforts, and didn't seem to mind Filippo's bumbling efforts.

The tree-filtered summer glow gilded Eduardo's skin into soft bronze, and his eyes looked brighter where the sun caught them, lit up by a sudden calculating gleam. The scar on his mouth stretched with his wide, mischievous smile, and two quick steps took him right into Filippo's personal space, close enough for a clink of metal where silver belt buckles brushed his armor. 

Filippo blinked, startled at the sudden proximity, but Eduardo didn't give him the time to take a polite step back. All of a sudden, rough fingers encircled his wrist, closing around the gap in his armor that allowed for a larger range of movement, and Eduardo curled the other hand around Filippo's fingers to steady the tilt of the pastry. He stretched up and held on, and took a bite of the side of the pastry, golden brown dough cracking open around the softness of steamed apples.

There was the faint scrape of Eduardo's bearded chin against his fingertips before he drew back and chewed, still grinning and unapologetic, still steadying Filippo's hand between both of his. He seemed shorter suddenly, and Filippo realized that he had stretched up on his toes to reach the pastry, using his grip on Filippo's hand to pull himself up. 

An unexpected, slow flush of heat swept through him at the thought, and he ducked his head a little to hide the blotchy redness that he could feel creeping upwards from his neck. Eduardo wasn't short, but Filippo was tall even for a papal guard, and with the heavy, padded boots and his bulky armor, he was used to towering over people. But there was something in Eduardo's posture that spoke of unbending strength, of a warrior's determination, and it sent an inexplicable heady rush through Filippo to glance down to meet his eyes, to know that he'd had to stand on his tiptoes to get at the pastry.

Shaking off the thought was harder than it should have been, and Filippo quickly brought up the pastry to hide behind, taking a warm, buttery bite off the other side. Crumbs rained down on the chest plate of his armor, but he paid them no heed. It was just as delicious as its tantalizing scent had promised all along, sweet crumbling dough and the fresh, sour fragrance of the apples mingling on his tongue. He chewed slowly, savoring the bite, and when he swallowed it down, he felt like he'd mostly regained control of the sudden race and stumble of his heartbeat.

Eduardo was grinning at him, unrepentant, head cocked to regard him out of eyes gone narrow with amusement. The playful mirth in his gaze made Filippo feel bumbling and slow as Eduardo just _looked_ at him, eyes unblinking in an entirely different appraisal from the warrior's assessment from before. Filippo opened his mouth, felt warmth rush to his face, and closed it again. There was nothing to say to being looked at like that, and it had been so _long_ since anyone's eyes had gone hooded and dark at the sight of him, and in the frozen, mute shock that gripped him, it took Filippo a moment to realize that Eduardo was stepping closer again.

"Wait, here," Filippo said helplessly, and tried to thrust the pastry at him, his stupid heart thumping startled and painful in his throat. But Eduardo just closed Filippo's fingers around the dough and leaned in, his prickly beard and the warmth of his skin once again a shock to the worn calluses at Filippo's fingertips.

He smelled of linen and clean male sweat, a trace of oil and steel adding a sharper tang. Filippo stared at him dumbly when Eduardo rocked back on his heels and let go of his hand, still grinning as he raised a hand to wipe warm, melted butter from his lips, chewing. It was Eduardo's confidence that threw him off-kilter, that cocky, boyish certainty that he wouldn't be pushed away. Oh, Filippo had no doubt that the man would have backed off if he'd insisted. But it felt strange and a little humbling, being faced with a man who would unapologetically invade a papal guard's personal space, with nothing but quick, warm hands on his wrist and a disarming grin.

But then again, Filippo mused with a twinge of uneasiness, that _was_ his job. Projecting confidence and acting entitled was probably high among the courtesan's list of things that would get awkward, bumbling clients such as Filippo to loosen up. The thought didn't sit well with him, stuck in the winding whorls of his mind like an ill-swallowed mouthful of food. He breathed out a sigh to dislodge it, and lifted the pastry to take another bite.

They shared the rest of it like that, the pastry cooling and shrinking rapidly between them. Eduardo took mercy on him and used his fingers rather than his mouth when the baked bun was small enough to fit into Filippo's palm. They handed it back and forth, the greasy wrapping spilling crumbs onto Eduardo's clothes and down the dark, shining plates of Filippo's armor. His heart slowed and steadied, though a faint prickle of nervousness remained, unfamiliar but not quite unwelcome. This kind of anxiety had not sat at the back of his neck in a long time.

The sunlight had softened a little, though it was dimmer here than it had been in the market square, sheltered as the street was by tall, leafy trees. Perhaps the heat would be a little more bearable with the passing of time later, Filippo thought idly, in no particular hurry to remember his duties and return to his patrol. He pictured the other guards, the archers on the blazing hot tiled roofs and the foot soldiers boiling in their overheated armor. Maybe some of them had given up on the _assassino_ by now too, despite the stern warnings and orders of their superiors. It truly was not the kind of day for a manhunt, no matter if one was chasing or being chased.

In a show of courtesy, Eduardo tore the last of the pastry in half, savoring his last bite of buttery dough with an audible crunch of teeth. Light glinted on the vambrace around his forearm and caught the large silver belt buckle in a flash of brightness.

"Interesting design," Filippo said around his last mouthful of apple filling, nodding at the bracer.

Eduardo stilled, his body freezing into a sudden and vaguely startling absence of all movement. His expression had been relaxed and open, with just a hint of the teasing smile tucked into the corner of his scarred mouth, and it was strange to watch his features turn stony, to see a frantic burst of thoughts visibly race past in his dark gaze.

Before Filippo could swallow his mouthful take back his careless words, Eduardo's face smoothed out again, like the surface of a lake after the careless throw of a stone. He even smiled a little, though a hint of uneasiness remained. "Custom-made," he replied, absently flexing his wrist and dropping his arm so the bracer was half-hidden behind the folds of his coat-tails. "By a friend."

"It seems your friend knew what he was doing," Filippo said cautiously, and was relieved to see the smile stretch wider and become more genuine. Encouraged, he hesitated only a moment before gesturing at the glint of throwing knives attached to the courtesan's belt. "Did he make those too?"

The wary stillness of Eduardo's posture broke when he laughed. "No, no," he answered. For a moment, Filippo thought he saw a protective, watchful glint in his eyes, like he was wondering why Filippo had inquired after the maker of the bracer, but then Eduardo waved the subject away, dismissing it as unimportant. "My friend is more of an engineer, really. He is not one for fighting and murder."

"Are _you?_ " Filippo inquired, more playful than truly curious. Even if Eduardo was indeed a former soldier, it was unlikely that he would carry the fighting and the ugliness of the job over into his new profession. "Or are those merely to attract the attention of customers while you are still new to this line of work?"

Eduardo looked baffled and then wickedly amused, his eyes glittering with mirth at some private joke that Filippo could only guess at. "Who knows?" he said, with a carefree expansive gesture, and glanced up at Filippo from beneath his eyelashes. "Since they drew _your_ attention, they have already proved their worth."

Filippo swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. The hood had slipped back a little once more, and the soft glow of the sunlight lit Eduardo's eyes almost to amber. With only a slight delay, and pushing the clumsy words out with an effort, he said, "I should think that soon you will not need their help at all."

"Ah, a compliment," Eduardo replied, teasing, but with an undercurrent of honest surprise. He regarded him in silence for a moment, his gaze briefly flickering down to where Filippo was wiping the pastry's residual grease off his fingers. "Mere flattery, or a connoisseur's honest assessment?"

"Hardly a connoisseur," Filippo said dryly. He stuffed the soiled wrapping into one of the small pouches on his belt; there was no need to clutter up the freshly-swept street. "Or do you usually see many other men in your line of work?"

Eduardo inclined his head in agreement, his lips quirking. Perhaps he was thinking of all the customers he would land as soon as word got around of a male courtesan offering his services to the citizens of Roma. It was another thought that felt strange and unwieldy in Filippo's mind, and he frowned at his own disquiet. Eduardo was broad-shouldered and tall, the easy balance of his gait and stance telling of his well-trained physique. But for a moment, Filippo still fought the absurd urge to ask him if he knew how to wield those throwing knives on his belt, in case a customer ever got more handsy with him than he'd paid for.

He had to make a conscious effort to swallow the words down, but managed to let the moment pass unused. His conversational skills might have been impeded, but even Filippo could tell that that would have been inappropriate. Eduardo let his gaze wander around the street one last time before pushing himself off the stone rim of the fountain that he'd been leaning on. He stepped to the side with a gesture and a raised eyebrow, a clear invitation to continue their leisure stroll, and Filippo gladly took it.

They started walking again, not the purposeful stride from before to get away from the crowds, but a slow, aimless amble that took them past small clusters of chattering neighbors. While a number of them gave Filippo's armor curious looks, none of their glances lingered long or darted away in guilty fear. It was almost as if he was just an ordinary guard again, so integrated into the city's picture that the citizens' eyes slid right past him. He smiled to himself at the thought. It was nice not to receive so many intimidated stares.

The trees became more sparse the further they went, the street broadening and circling back in the general direction of the market. Filippo could already hear the clamor of voices, footsteps, and laughter through the cooing pigeons on the rooftops. 

"So you will spend the rest of your day chasing the assassin?" Eduardo asked conversationally. He seemed a little more tense than a moment ago—not poised to fight, but watchful all the same. 

Filippo, for his part, was well aware that they were returning to the many eyes and ears of the market, and automatically stepped to the side a little to keep an extra foot of space between them. It took a moment for the question to register with him. "It seems I will," he replied. "Though I cannot say I will enjoy the work, nor do I think the assassin is eager for a fight today."

Another inexplicably wide grin stretched the silvery scar on Eduardo's mouth, but this time he tried to hide his amusement. He disguised his bark of laughter with a cough before saying, in a remarkably steady voice, "The man must be a right _cretino_ to be out and about in this heat."

Filippo shrugged. The motion rubbed his armor against his shoulders again, but his sweaty clothes had dried at least a little, and it didn't chafe so much anymore. "According to the reports, he does not wear full-body armor as we do. He could just be sitting on a rooftop somewhere right now, watching us all get slowly cooked."

"But what kind of honorable battle would that be?" Eduardo inquired, giving him a sly look from the corner of his eye. "If I were the assassin, I would want to take my enemies down fighting—not let the _sun_ do my work for me."

Filippo waved a hand dismissively, though he found himself smirking to himself. He hadn't encountered the legendary assassin in a fight yet, but from what he had heard, Eduardo's assessment of the man was correct. "Well, if you see him, don't tell him that. The heat is hard enough on all of us even without a merry chase through the market square."

"Not a word," Eduardo promised, but although his voice was solemn, his eyes still glinted with mischief.

Their alley merged with another street, lined with a number of market stalls. The vendors looked more wilted by now, sweaty and tired even in the protective shade of their awnings—nevertheless, they still advertized the quality of their goods, though not as loudly as before. Clusters of citizens were gathered around the laid-out wares and milling through the street. Behind a group of sunburned young men, Filippo spotted a patrol by the dark red of the city guard's hats, and quickly glanced to the side to affirm that he was still keeping a courteous distance from Eduardo.

The courtesan skimmed the market stalls with little more than a passing glance, though he lingered longer at a table with short-bladed, artfully carved daggers and dyed leather sheaths. Filippo smiled to himself, stopping as well to let Eduardo peruse the weapons for a moment longer. His theory that Eduardo had once been a soldier himself was veering further and further into certainty. Perhaps he had been discharged only recently, if the sight of knives still held such an allure to him.

Eduardo picked up one of the weapons after a questioning glance at the vendor. The short, stocky man gave him an eager nod, hopeful in the face of a potential customer. The handle of the dagger looked oddly suited to Eduardo's hand, his tanned fingers curling around the hilt with the ease of long practice. He twirled it experimentally, made several short, harmless slashing motions in the air, and nodded to himself, satisfied with the balance of the weapon.

Filippo watched silently. The sight had him fighting down the urge to buy the knife for Eduardo, and it took more effort than it should have to bury the unbecoming thought. Even if he'd had the courage to make the offer, he somehow doubted that Eduardo would have accepted his generosity, though he had done nothing to lead Filippo to think of him as a prideful man.

"What do you think?" Eduardo said to him, only a little teasing. He held up the dagger for closer inspection, the edge of the blade glinting and smooth in the sunlight, not yet marred by the nicks and scratches of battle. The hilt seemed to fit perfectly into Eduardo's grip, and through his fingers, Filippo could see coiling, stitched designs on the dark leather.

"A fine weapon, though perhaps a bit too ornate," Filippo remarked tactfully. It might shame Eduardo if he was encouraged to buy something he couldn't afford, just as his pride would bristle if Filippo offered to pay for him. 

A small smile tucked itself into the corner of Eduardo's mouth, as if he knew exactly what was going through Filippo's mind. He looked back down at the dagger, weighing it in his hand and testing the fit of his fingers. Their interest had drawn the attention of the sunburned men. Filippo stepped around to Eduardo's other side to leave them room to look at the wares, ducking into the market stall's slim shadow.

" _Ornate_ ," the vendor said with a derisive sniff, drawing himself up to his full, though unimpressive, height. "I'll have you know that is leather work of the finest—"

" _Assassino!_ "

The shout echoed in the street like the crack of a whip, cutting through the murmur of voices and the muffled din from the larger market square. There was a commotion near the mouth of the alley, and then the small patrol of guards pushed through a group of women, weapons drawn and glinting in the sunlight.

It only took Filippo a split-second to straighten up from his languid lean over the vendor's wares. Adrenaline flooded his senses, sharpened his gaze as he whirled around with one hand on his sword, quickly darting around Eduardo to trap the smaller man between his bulk and the market stall. He looked around wildly for a sliver of white, for flying red coat-tails, but he couldn't see the assassin, and the guards—

The guards were charging right at them, Filippo realized, the crowd parting quickly before their swords and grim, battle-hungry faces. The back of his neck prickled with the hair-raising awareness that the assassin was probably _above_ them, perched on the roof and just waiting for his chance to plunge his blade into Filippo's unprotected neck.

"You there! Hold him! Don't let him get away!" the captain shouted, shoving an elderly woman out of his way, with such force that she stumbled and fell to her knees on the hot pavement. Confused, frightened shouts echoed off the walls, and Filippo saw hands gripping the woman's arms and pulling her back to her feet just before the panicking crowd swept her up.

He whirled around to face Eduardo, who flinched back from his touch when Filippo gripped his shoulder and pushed him towards the street they'd come from. "Run!" he urged under his breath, even as his gaze flickered frantically over the people behind the courtesan's shoulder, searching for a trace of white, a glint of steel. "This is no place for you—hide in an alley until the commotion dies down, there is no need to be scared, you are no soldier, the assassin will pay you no heed. Quickly now, _go!_ "

Eduardo stared at him with utter, baffled confusion in his eyes. Filippo shoved him again, none too gently this time, and he stumbled back into the group of young men that had come to admire the weapons with him. There was a moment of silent, tightly-strung panic when he just _didn't move_ , and Filippo widened his stance, grew tense as a bowstring in preparation for jumping after him and crowding him back against the wall, where he'd be safe between the stone and Filippo's armor. His heart was pounding, sweat sliding down his back in hot, itching drops, each second agonizingly long as he waited for a blade to find the gaps between the metal and bury itself in his back.

But then Eduardo visibly shook himself, and the last thing Filippo saw of him was the lush, shocked bow of his lower lip firming into a determined line. The hood hid his eyes from view, but Filippo thought he saw him nod, just once, before he whirled around and dove through a gap in a horde of panicked young ladies. 

The street was clearing quickly, the citizens almost tripping over each other as they ducked into the relative safety of small, shaded alleys, out of the way of the guards. Filippo lost sight of Eduardo right away, but something in his chest loosened for it, something he hadn't even noticed was tense. A flash of his white clothes through the throng and he was gone, effortlessly blending in with the running, shouting people, letting the crowd engulf him. 

Then the captain of the patrol skidded to a stop at Filippo's side, his sword still drawn, eyes wide in his red, sweaty face as he looked around wildly. "Where did the _bastardo_ go?!" he panted, sideswiping Filippo with an accusing glare as he circled around him. "He was _right here!_ "

Confused, Filippo looked around and finally up at the small awning that the vendor had erected to protect the weapons and himself from the sunlight. The thick cloth looked somewhat saggy in the middle, as though someone had jumped down into it from the height of a rooftop.

He swallowed hard, only dimly aware of the guards fanning out aimlessly through the street, shouting to each other in confused, angry voices. The assassin was long gone, and the guards were obviously just moving for the sake of it, poking a haystack on the far side of the street and leaning back to scrutinize the rooftops. They looked frustrated and grim, furious that their quarry had escaped them yet again, and with such relative ease, without even so much as a skirmish to slake their thirst for battle.

The captain called his people to order, but Filippo just stared up at the awning and felt his hands grow cold. If the man had really been up there, Filippo had escaped a swift death only through some strange inclination of mercy. The assassin could have swept down on him like a bird of prey, unbalanced Filippo with his weight and cut him a second bloody, gaping mouth from ear to ear, pushed off his falling body to launch himself towards the guards.

Maybe— maybe he had taken Filippo's discarded helmet as a sign that he was off duty, and hadn't wanted to just slaughter a man who was not expecting a fight. Filippo frowned, shaking his head, and finally tore his eyes away. 

Or perhaps the assassin had seen Eduardo and identified him as an innocent despite the throwing knives. And perhaps he had not wanted him to be sprayed with Filippo's blood as he cut him down.

Filippo wiped the back of his hand over his brow, not surprised when it came away coated in sweat. He knew he should be relieved that his life had been spared, and he _was_ , but the shaky, dislocated feeling that rattled around in his chest was born of more than that. Eduardo would not jerk awake from nightmares of Filippo's throat being sliced open right in front of him, and for that, he was grateful.

"Get back in formation, you fools!" the captain shouted, striding back towards the larger square at a brisk pace. Filippo caught a glimpse of his furious expression, and winced on behalf of the man's troops. They would be lucky if they only got an earful about their incompetence, instead of drills until sundown.

He made to follow them, thinking vaguely that he should go back to his assigned patrol and hope that none of the other guards had missed his absence, but the thought felt oddly insubstantial. His pulse had not yet slowed completely, his senses still alert and battle-sharp. Eduardo's startled expression was seared into his memory like a brand, flickering in front of him whenever he blinked.

There was no reason for the assassin to go after a mere courtesan, and Eduardo had disappeared so quickly—he clearly had practice at blending in with crowds, and there was a good chance that any pursuers had lost track of him by now. Still, as Filippo finally tore his gaze from the winding alley and turned away, he wished there was a way for him to know for sure if he was safe.

* * *

It was not until a couple of days later that Filippo found himself standing in the entrance hall of the Rosa in Fiore, feeling so out of place that it was all he could do to dig his heels in and resist the nearly overwhelming urge to turn tail and run.

He had only the highest respect for women, especially those who worked in a profession as dangerous as that of the courtesans. He enjoyed their conversation if not their carnal attractions, although he often grew too tongue-tied in the presence of a lady to engage in more than brief small-talk. But being surrounded by scantily-dressed girls who gave him coy looks and let their delicate hands rest briefly on his shoulders and arms... it was just too _much_. He'd been told to stay in the large entrance hall until the owner of the brothel had time to see him, but he was beginning to wish he'd insisted on waiting outside.

A young woman attached herself to his arm, widening her eyes in admiration when she trailed her fingers down his biceps. He smiled shakily down at her and tried to step away, but found himself hemmed in by the impressive bust of another courtesan on the other side, her flesh bulging above her lacy corset where her curves suddenly engulfed his shoulder. She gave him an unashamed grin when he jerked away and stammered an apology. The other girl used his momentum to pull him closer, pressing a pert little breast to his elbow and a round hip to his thigh.

"That's quite enough, ladies," an imperious voice came from the marble staircase, and Filippo nearly gasped in relief when he saw a dark-haired woman approach, parting the swarm of courtesans with her presence alone. "Give the man some space."

The courtesans gave melodious sighs of regret, but dispersed obediently to let their mistress through. Filippo swayed a little in relief when the girl at his side withdrew, though she tossed a flirty, lingering look over her shoulder as she followed the others to the alcoves and the stairs. The dark-haired woman looked him up and down, one delicate eyebrow inching up towards her hairline.

He bowed to her, well aware that his face was flaming, but reassured enough by her reasonable clothes to remember his manners. " _Buongiorno, signora_ ," he said, straightening up again. "I apologize for intruding—"

She shook her head, her expression growing a little less guarded as she took in his obvious discomfort. "The accounting can wait a while," she replied, and strode past him with a rustle of dark red skirts, beckoning him to a more secluded corner of the hall.

He hurried to follow, and noticed that he'd been accidentally treading rose petals into the carpet. Two girls with baskets of rose petals were standing on the stairs, giving him identical beguiling smiles when their gazes met, and tossing a fresh flurry of fragrant, drifting petals into the air. They made the Rosa in Fiore smell pleasantly of flowers, unlike some of the less immaculate establishments that his fellow guards sometimes dragged him to.

The matron of the brothel stopped at a large wooden desk, piled high with books and well-used writing utensils. The books were bound in dark brown and red leather, nearly the same shade as the gold-stitched wallpaper. Every color in the parlor seemed to have been selected specifically, to create an aesthetically pleasing background with the courtesans' brightly colored dresses as a contrast. The white marble of the staircase stood out among the dark red, leading the visitors' eyes up to the balcony with their shaded alcoves and doors.

"This is quite unusual," the woman said. The look she gave him was considering and still a bit distrustful, like she expected him to pull a knife out of his boot and threaten her. "I don't think I have ever seen a soldier of the papal guard here."

Filippo groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Is it that obvious?" he asked, frustrated that his plan to keep a low profile had backfired already. 

Before he had left this morning, he had thought for a long time about whether or not to wear his armor. It would have made him more easily recognizable—which would've been good, in case he really did find Eduardo, but he hadn't wanted to spook the other courtesans. In the end he'd left it at the barracks and dressed in unremarkable everyday clothes. But it seemed that perceptive eyes could still see him for what he was.

"Your posture, your build, the way you immediately looked for exits when you came in," she replied, ticking the points off on her fingers. Strangely enough, she relaxed at his obvious dismay, a bit of the subtle tension leaving her slim frame. "But if you are not here on business, which I don't suppose you are," Filippo shook his head quickly, "then it is of no matter to me what you do to make a living."

She swept her appraising gaze over him again, and Filippo thought that the expression looked familiar on her, but he couldn't quite place from where he recognized it, since he felt sure that he hadn't met her before. She didn't look like the kind of employer who went out onto the streets to sell her own assets along with those of her girls. Her embroidered dress was mercifully high-necked, her dark curls held back by a simple hairnet, and she hadn't tried to flirt with him, keeping a decorous distance instead.

It appeared that she deemed him unthreatening, because some of the wariness left her gaze. "Now," she said, crisp and professional. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a courtesan," Filippo said dumbly, still reeling a little from the strange sense of familiarity left over from her assessing look.

Her lips twitched, a spark of mirth lighting up her eyes, though she immediately reassembled her expression of polite interest. "I dare say you're in the right place."

Filippo grimaced a little at his blunder, and took a moment to arrange his words before he spoke. He had been thinking about how to say this in a way that wouldn't make her alert the guards, just in case he was mistaken and Eduardo had lied about his affiliation with the Rosa in Fiore. "No, you don't understand," he said slowly, trying not to let the nervous prickle at the back of his neck into his voice. "You see, he— he's a man." 

He paused, giving her a second to wrinkle her nose or call for some of the taller courtesans to throw him out. But although surprise flickered across her features, she did nothing, and after a moment Filippo ventured, "He said he was working for you."

Her delicate eyebrows climbed up her forehead again. "Working for me?"

"Well, at least he told me he did," Filippo said uncertainly. He had expected her to know who he was talking about right away, but maybe the Rosa in Fiore had recently added more men to their ranks. "His name was Eduardo."

"Eduardo," she repeated, her voice blank. Inwardly, Filippo nodded to himself. So it really had been a fake name, but he didn't blame Eduardo for wanting to protect his identity. The courtesan had probably had a whole array of names memorized to give to his clients. 

Well, Filippo would just have to assure the woman that he wasn't here to find out who Eduardo really was. Though he would have _liked_ to, but this was not about the lingering, soft sense of wonder whenever he remembered the way Eduardo had smirked at him and teased him, eaten the apple pastry straight out of his hand and watched him with dark, amused eyes that sometimes did not quite seem to know what to make of him. 

Filippo had to struggle for a moment to shake off the memory. Then he took a deep breath, and found himself ducking his head a little, curving his shoulders inwards to make himself smaller and not loom over her quite so much. "I know that you only intend to protect him, and I assure you, I do not wish him harm," he said. He could still see Eduardo's expression, shocked and confused as Filippo had tried to get him to run. "I simply want to know if he is safe. There was a skirmish with guards, they were chasing the assassin, and he disappeared."

The woman was frowning now, looking confused and a little suspicious. She propped one hand on her hip and studied him through narrowed eyes, and Filippo tried his best to look unassuming and harmless. "Perhaps you could describe him?" she suggested, sounding doubtful.

"He wore white," Filippo said instantly, relieved that she was at least pretending to take him seriously. "And red, I suppose, and a leather belt with a large silver buckle, high boots and long coat-tails. A long-sleeved shirt under a red-lined coat, cut in the Florentine fashion. He had an impressive array of weapons on him, a bracer for instance, that he said his friend had made. And a hood," he added after a moment of thought. "Quite a large, white hood, he never took it off, I wonder how he did not get heat stroke under there."

He saw the spark of recognition in the woman's gaze, and the wariness in her expression shattered into a look of utter, flabbergasted disbelief. Filippo had to fight the urge to turn around and see what it was that had startled her so. She simply gaped at him for a few long seconds as though waiting for him to take back his words, her pink, rosy mouth open in incredulity, and then sudden understanding lit up her expressive features.

"Oh, that infuriating, reckless, half-witted—," she exclaimed, and barely managed to bring up a slender hand in time to muffle her loud, surprised sputter of laughter. "I can't _believe_ the gall of him!"

Filippo blinked, taken aback when she pressed her fingers to her mouth to suppress an unladylike snort. Her eyes were dancing with mirth, cheeks reddening as if after a day spent in the sun, and the melodious, tinkling laughter made her look younger, less regal and reserved. 

"So you do know him?" he inquired cautiously, trying not to let the sudden hope into his voice. The woman's head jerked up in alarm, the amusement gone from her expression like condensation wiped from a window.

"No!" she blurted out, startled and visibly struggling to regain her composure. "No, not personally, I just— _Eduardo_ , of course, I should have remembered, he— worked here for a short while, he did, it just slipped my mind." 

She took a deep breath and broke eye contact, her gaze following her hand as she smoothed down the folds of her skirt. The gesture looked idle enough, but Filippo got the feeling that she was thinking quickly. When she looked back up at him, she had reassembled some of her earlier confidence and the cool professional veneer. "I'm sorry, I truly am, but I cannot help you. He— he moved. Away."

"Oh," Filippo said, crestfallen. The brief spark of hope died as quickly as it had been kindled, and he struggled not to show his disappointment. "So quickly?"

"Yes, it was very unexpected," the woman agreed. She hid it so well that he wouldn't have noticed the lingering alarm if he hadn't been looking for it, but he didn't know what to do to make her realize that he really did not wish anyone harm. "Something came up. Family obligations, you see. He went to— to Venezia."

"Oh," Filippo repeated, somewhat dumbly, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. 

He had the vague feeling that she wasn't telling him the truth, although he couldn't think of a reason for her to lie—if a customer inquired after a courtesan, no matter of what gender, it would of course be in her best interest to cooperate. The story didn't sit well with him, but he pushed the doubts away. He had not asked Eduardo about his family, after all, and so he could not know for sure whether the woman was lying. 

All of a sudden he felt foolish, and dropped his gaze as the full weight of what he was doing sunk down on his shoulders all at once. He was not young anymore—he should have been beyond this, should not be running around town like an excited youth chasing a pretty lady. It was undignified and inappropriate, and he could only guess what Eduardo's employer thought of him, disdain or amusement well-hidden behind her professional veneer.

But staring at the floor like a chastised boy would not do, and so Filippo swallowed hard and made himself meet her eyes again. He would go, slink away with what little of his dignity might still be intact. But he could not get the memory of Eduardo's expression out of his head, that wide-eyed look of utter, confused shock. 

She must already have thought him pathetic enough, following a _courtesan_ around like a mooning boy. But he needed to _know_ , and finally forced himself to ask, halting but urgent, "But he was safe?"

The woman just looked at him, the wary scrutiny of her amber eyes so familiar that it niggled insistently at the back of Filippo's mind. "After our encounter a few days ago," he clarified, trying to ignore the renewed feeling of déjà vu. "I lost sight of him in the crowd, but— he came home safe?"

Something softened in her gaze, melted a little bit into something less guarded, a quiet, insistent regard that he did not understand. "Yes," she said quietly, and inclined her head to him. "Thanks to you, I suppose."

Filippo shook his head and waved her words away, swallowing down the rush of relief to savor it later and not wear it written all over his face for her to see. "Oh, no, I didn't do anything," he objected, a little uncomfortable with her steady gaze on him. He had done nothing to earn her gratitude—true, he had told Eduardo to run, but from what he had seen, the man would have been more than capable of taking care of himself.

He looked between her and the two girls that were still tossing handfuls of rose petals in the air, and the feeling of being out of place came rushing back. The courtesans that had accosted him earlier had probably listened to their conversation from the upstairs balcony, and were surely struggling to muffle their laughter even now. The thought would have made him feel hot with shame if he had been younger, but as it was, he simply cast a careful glance up at the ceiling and hoped that they would not tell on him. 

Absently brushing a stray rose petal from the shoulder of his tunic, he said, a little too hastily, "I— I should probably go."

The woman blinked, taking a moment to refocus her thoughts, and he was almost relieved to see the calm, cool confidence settle around her shoulders again, like a carefully draped cloak. "Yes," she replied, straightening up and smoothing her skirts once more. "I am sorry I couldn't help you."

Even without his armor, he felt huge and unwieldy next to the slender woman, but he still bowed to her again. "It is of no matter," he assured her, because to some extent, it really wasn't; he knew now that Eduardo was safe, and that would have to be enough for now. "Thank you for your time, _signora_ , and I hope you have a good day."

"You as well," she told him, her eyes going distant as a fine line formed between her eyebrows again. She had mentioned accounting earlier, and Filippo felt a stir of compassion as he turned and walked to the exit. He would not want to spend such a hot summer day bent over books either.

A rush of hot, dusty air engulfed him when he opened the heavy oaken door, and Filippo grimaced as sweat immediately beaded on his forehead. He hadn't noticed how pleasantly cool the Rosa in Fiore's entrance hall had been until now. He stepped out into the street, and glanced back over his shoulder at the broad patch of sunlight in the hall, his own shadow distorted oddly by the staircase.

The woman had hitched up her dark red skirts, and Filippo could see her fine-boned ankles as she hurried up the stairs. "Ezio Auditore!" she shouted, at a surprising volume for such a petite lady. "Drag your lazy ass out of my girls' beds and get down here this instant!"

There was a brief pause. Then a muffled reply came from upstairs, in a male voice husky with sleepy confusion and perhaps a hangover. Completely unsympathetic, the woman did not lower her voice at all. "Well, for starters, you could explain why a _papal guard_ was just here—"

The door swung shut on the last of her words, and he grimaced in sympathy for the unknown man's rude awakening, though he did not know why the matron would blame him for Filippo's visit. He waited for a moment, squinting into the sunlight, but when he didn't hear more shouting from inside, he stepped away from the door. 

The square was mostly deserted, as the citizens of Roma clearly had more sense than him and stayed inside in the stifling midday heat. The pavement was hot beneath his boots, sweat already beginning to stick the fabric of his clothes to his back and thighs. Filippo moved quickly despite the heat, eyes fixed on the patch of shadow where narrow, winding alleys forked away from the square.

_Auditore_. The name rang a bell somewhere at the back of his memory. Filippo's steps faltered and paused, and for a moment he stared blankly at the sun-bleached boards that were nailed all over the old tunnel entrance in front of the brothel. He had the distinct feeling that he'd heard that name before, that it was important somehow—and, oddly enough, that Cesare Borgia would have him hanged on the spot if he had heard that thought.

He shook his head at himself, used the back of his hand to wipe the gathering sweat off his forehead, and resumed his decisive stride. First it had been the matron's eyes that had looked familiar to him, and now he even thought he had heard a random name before. Perhaps the unrelenting Italian summer had finally gotten to him. He'd better spend the rest of the day in the relative coolness of the barracks, and perhaps ask one of the garrison's surgeons for a remedy for heat stroke.

The shade felt almost cold after the blazing sunlight in the square, and Filippo sighed in relief, shoving his sleeves up his arms and slowing his steps. He glanced back over his shoulder at the square and saw the air flicker above the pavement, distorting the clean angles and smooth masonry of the Rosa in Fiore. His thoughts circled back to Eduardo, and he wondered idly if a part of his supposed family obligations had just been fabricated to escape Roma's blistering summer.

If Eduardo's employer hadn't lied to him and he had even left in the first place, Filippo amended silently. There was nothing to be done about it—he couldn't very well go back and ask again, not without making even more of a fool of himself. But he would search for any sign of him, and make a point to scan the clusters of scantily-dressed girls for traces of white and red.

The thought put a bounce in his step even amidst the heat, and despite all the teasing he'd have to endure from his fellow guards if they saw him look at courtesans. But they wouldn't know _who_ he was looking for, Filippo thought, and found himself grinning unexpectedly, with a surge of boyish excitement that he hadn't felt in a long time. 

He would keep his eyes open, and perhaps he could travel north on his next leave. Venezia was rumored to be a beautiful city after all.


End file.
